


A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

by elegantwings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, canon compliant before episode 4, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: There are certain things in this world Geralt knows to be true. Some, though not he, might call them rules to live by, the most important of which warns him: do not trust humans. Unfortunately for him, there is one human he can't seem to be rid of, no matter how hard he tries.***"Geralt growled and pressed into Jaskier’s neck again, not hard enough just yet to bruise, relishing in Jaskier’s startled squeak. The lute clatters from his hand to the ground. “What are you?” he demanded again, “You follow on my heels like a lost child, bard, on foot, you don’t flinch away when I’m covered in rotting monster guts, and all this time, you’re still in one piece!”When Jaskier’s mouth falls open in shock, Geralt thinks, beyond reason, he’s hurt his feelings and should apologize."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 746
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Shrike" by Hozier. No beta, takes place in the show canon before Episode 4. Despite the summary, this has nothing to do with episode 6. Maybe another time. Also I play a little fast and lose with the timeline.

Geralt’s heard the same three lines of the same damned song over and over, for hours it felt like. Every time he’d glared and snapped for Jaskier to shut the fuck up already, Jaskier had apologized, sometimes bowing with a completely unnecessary flourish, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ve almost got it, those notes are a tricky little minx but I’ll get them to submit to me yet,” and finally, finally, Geralt had enough.

“What are you,” he demanded, teeth bared, his forearm pressing Jaskier’s neck into the nearest tree.

Jaskier’s eyes had widened from fear and Geralt was almost relieved to see it, to smell it, watching the nervous sweat bead against Jaskier’s temples and hearing his heart begin to race. He was already panting from the slightest exertion of being pushed from beside Roach and into the tree. “I - what?” he’d started, and somehow came to his senses immediately. “I’m Jaskier?” he said, as if Geralt was the insensate one, “I Jaskier, bard, you Geralt, witcher, if we’re going to get all cave-man about it.” 

Geralt growled and pressed into Jaskier’s neck again, not hard enough just yet to bruise, relishing in Jaskier’s startled squeak. The lute clatters from his hand to the ground. “What are you?” he demanded again, “You follow on my heels like a lost child, bard, on foot, you don’t flinch away when I’m covered in rotting monster guts, and all this time, you’re still in one piece!” 

When Jaskier’s mouth falls open in shock, Geralt thinks, beyond reason, he’s hurt his feelings and should apologize. 

This isn’t normal. Humans aren’t like this. 

Humans don’t recover as quickly either, but Jaskier’s smart mouth is going again. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about Geralt,” he says dismissively, “You’ll find taking you on as my muse has fattened up my coin purse quite a bit.” But before Geralt can react to that, he’s caught off-guard (again), by the sudden, soft, “Geralt, are you alright? Talk to me. Whatever’s wrong with you, whatever spell you’re under, we can work through it.” The fool is one false move away from losing the freedom of breathing, and he’s worried about Geralt. The fear, Geralt realizes, is not for himself. 

Geralt lets go abruptly, gets back on his horse, and leads her onward.

“Oh my god,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, and then shouts, “Is this goodbye then?” 

Geralt goads Roach faster. 

The tavern is loud with overlapping voices, too much laughter. Geralt has tucked himself into a corner, as usual, one eye on the door out of habit. The ale in front of him, his third or fourth, is full enough, and he’s coming around to the idea of taking a room for the night. There’s several folded pieces of paper in his pocket promising rewards for successful killings. He is well on his way to forgetting that anything out of the ordinary happened today. 

The door swings open loudly, not unusual for such a place, but the man who lets himself in is not a usual patron of this particular locale. No, the blues of his doublet are too bright, his shoes expensive and his hair expertly cut if a little messy at the moment. But he’s filthy, and he’s limping, and his face breaks out into a relieved smile when he finds Geralt, zeroes in on his nook immediately, the exact spot, chosen for both its obscurity and darkness. 

Geralt drinks from his ale until it’s empty, hoping the spare few moments will brace him for Jaskier standing in front of him, panting, covered in sweat and dirt. “I found you!” he exclaims, causing Geralt to shoot a glare at the few patrons who look over at his outburst. He all but falls into the seat across from Geralt, taking an extra long moment to gently set his lute down next to him, and Geralt refuses to acknowledge the hushed whispers of, "There's a good girl." Once he's satisfied of it's safety, he focuses all of his attention on Geralt and begins to chatter. “Now, we could try the apothecary first, but I’ve been thinking, what would he know about witchers right? So a mage it is then, and if you give me a moment to get cleaned up, I can do a few rounds of the old classics and we’ll surely have enough to pay-”

“You’re limping,” Geralt says flatly. 

“Oh right,” Jaskier says, a burst of irritated energy, “Look at my boot!” He pulls the offending thing off and shoves the bottom end in Geralt’s face. “Heel broke clean off!” 

Geralt pushes it away. “I keep telling you-”

“I know, I know, travel in better shoes,” Jaskier finishes for him. “You might have a point there, I must concede. Now, as you so rudely ran off with my pack on your horse, direct me to the stables so I can get cleaned up a bit and -”

Jaskier’s making Geralt forget the point, again. “Why did you follow me?” he demands. Somehow he hadn’t believed Jaskier could be that stupid, and yet. 

The soft look takes over Jaskier’s face again. “I want to help you, Geralt. You’re obviously not yourself.” 

Geralt stands up. “This is pointless.” He drops a few coins on the table for the noise, and Jaskier’s mess, and heads for the door. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Jaskier shouts after him, and Geralt can hear the stumble in his step as he struggles to get his boot back on and follow him out the door. “Just let me help you!” 

It takes everything Geralt’s ever learned in his training and in his life not to grab Jaskier up by his fancy collar as soon as he’s out the door. He wants to slam him into the wall of the inn, he wants to make him realize what a mistake this is, to follow a witcher. Geralt’s not a fool, perhaps driven a little mad earlier by the constant repetition of the song, but he knows Jaskier is human through and through. Knows from the predictable, fragile sounds of his body, when his knees crack if he sits too long, how he yawns sometimes all day long on eight hours of sleep if he’s bored enough. How his heart quickens when he’s in danger. When Geralt’s in danger, he realizes. 

Geralt learned his lesson long ago, too late, not to trust humans. His masters tried to beat it into him with training, and true, he’d remained impassive when the tavern owners, the alderman and stable hands, kitchen wenches, kings, when they’d all looked at him in disgust, always right before or right after they needed his services. No, it was the whores who did him in, too smart to let their looks of disgust show either right before or after they needed his coin. “Pay for your sex,” he’d been taught, “and no one gets the wrong idea.” Finally, he’d realized, the warning was for his ideas and not theirs. 

Jaskier could fool him, could fool him for years with the utter devotion shining in his eyes, tempting him to unlearn years of his most hard-won lesson. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Geralt says through gritted teeth, “Go get your things and go away.” 

And Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. demanding, and says, “So you just..left me? Because I’m nice to you?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, looking towards the stables. He spares a glance at the few that have gathered to watch this absurd show, narrowing his eyes just enough they slink back. 

He can’t see him, but he hears Jaskier’s sharp, offended gasp, can imagine how his arms must be flailing in irritation. “I should have known!” he crows, “The great Geralt of Rivia has decided he’s too good to spend time with a lowly musician, oh no, he must spend his days in self-imposed misery. Shall I pick you some switches for a round of self-flagellation while we’re at it?” Geralt doesn’t need to hear Jaskier to know he’s coming closer with every heated shout. 

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Geralt growls, turning on his heel to glower at the man only a few inches away from him now.

Face to face all of a sudden, Jaskier blinks, but he swallows and stands tall. “What is it, then? What else could it possibly be?” he asks, soft enough now that only Geralt can hear. 

Geralt’s gotten close to humans before. They’ve let their guard down, trusted him, and then they’ve seen his eyes gone full black, listened to him speak of his training, heard his heart beating so, so slowly, and they’ve had their fill and left. So Geralt doesn’t, anymore. He doesn’t allow anyone close enough to know he’s a monster from anything more than his words. 

“It’s easier this way. Now, and not later.” Geralt sighs, welcoming the familiar ache in his chest as realization dawns on Jaskier’s face. He’s felt worse. It would have been far worse. 

Jaskier’s takes Geralt’s hands so suddenly he almost doesn’t register, holding them gently between his own in front of them both. Geralt tries to jerk away, unconscious, but Jaskier holds fast, even as he’s pulled forward half an inch. 

“You ridiculous man,” Jaskier says so softly, looking deeper into Geralt than he has any right, standing there barely keeping his balance, holding onto Geralt’s filthy, stained hands as if he wants to, and not because they’re the only thing now keeping him from face planting into the dirt. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier says, a promise, and there’s nothing left for Geralt then but to carefully push him back onto steady feet and kiss him, lessons be damned. 

Geralt pulls back as if burned when he feels Jaskier let him go, just in time to see his face change quickly from dazed to determined before he’s clutching Geralt’s face, threading his fingers through his hair and dragging him in for a bruising kiss. 

Geralt allows himself to narrow his focus to this moment, the scrape of teeth against his tongue, the sharp yank of his hair as Jaskier fights to get so close they could climb into one another. 

Jaskier stumbles again, growling out a surprisingly low, frustrated and oh so turned on groan. He pulls away from Geralt and before his lips can be chased he mutters out, “Let me try something,” and wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, and hops up in the air. Geralt’s helpless to catch his legs around his waist without a thought. Jaskier smiles, bright and deadly, and goes right back to where he left off. 

It’s too easy to stand here, supporting all of Jaskier’s not insubstantial weight with nothing but the palms of his hands and his hips, feeling the other man’s muscles jump and tense under the urgent press of Geralt’s fingers. He feels drunk with the kind of heat he only feels like this, when his blood starts to pump just a little faster, his world narrowed down to the feel of the tongue chasing his own. The hardness against his belly barely registers and yet it is the entire world, to say nothing of his own cock pressing against the tightness of his pants, the gentle curve of Jaskier’s ass.

Geralt doesn’t falter when the innkeeper clears his throat uncomfortably, but Jaskier pulls away with a completely out of character snarl “What?!” and glare at the offending man. Geralt can feel his own heart flutter, completely out of character, as he fills with familiarly fond amusement on top of his surprise. He barely manages an accompanying glare towards the innkeeper.

“Ah,” the innkeeper starts, gamely holding his own under the dual onslaught of irritation. “It’s only...you’ll be wanting a room, I assume?” he finishes lamely. Geralt is suddenly aware that the crowd around them has only grown, and fears that Jaskier will figure out how to use this to his own advantage one day. 

Right. A room. “Yes,” Geralt says firmly and before he can say anything else the innkeeper is exhaling in relief. 

“Right, upstairs, second room on the left,” he says as he holds out a key. "We can settle your debt in the morning."

Geralt doesn’t even acknowledge him any further, taking the key as he walks past with Jaskier still wrapped around his waist. “Duck,” he says simply, and Jaskier barely manages with the way he’s pumping his fist madly in the air. Someone whistles, and the only thing keeping him from smacking Jaskier’s ass in annoyance is that it would only encourage him and the whistler both. 

Jaskier only stops kissing him on the stairs to frantically remind him not to leave the lute behind.

The room has a bath all ready to go, steaming gently, and there’s various oils and salts, even a candle burning. It’s almost as of Jaskier planned it ahead, but when Geralt starts to make a half-serious accusation, he pauses. Jaskier is lying where he was deposited moments before on the bed, but his flush has turned less aroused and more nervous, embarrassed. “What is it?” Geralt asks, and forces himself to accept the likelihood that Jaskier has started thinking with his senses instead of his cock and started to realize the inherent dangers of bedding a witcher. 

Jaskier’s eyes widen, “What?” he sits himself up, and Geralt catches the slight wince as he pushes up against the back of the bed. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, running over the length of Geralt’s body with lust wide eyes. “Quite the opposite, I promise you.” 

Geralt’s overcome again, crawling into the bed and looming over Jaskier, leaning in to kiss him. Geralt is quickly becoming used to the feeling of his hair wrapped tight around grasping fingers, the sharp pull when he grinds his hips down just enough that their cocks brush together, a delightful tease with layers of clothing between them. Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, mouthing at the quick pulse under his ear and relishing the breathy gasps it causes. He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him in tight, letting his teeth scrape skin.

Jaskier’s moan turns pained fast enough that Geralt thinks, impossibly, he’s hurt him and pulls back sharply. 

“No, no, don’t stop,” Jaskier begs, unconsciously trying to follow Geralt backwards. He’s breathing heavily, and the corners of his eyes are damp, staining the dried sweat tracks. He’s filthy, Geralt realizes, he’s never seen the man get this covered in dirt and debris without throwing himself immediately into the next available water source, be it a clear stream or the bath still piping hot behind them. 

Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s chest stops his movement. He pushes him, carefully backwards, not missing the wince again as back meets headboard. “What is it?” he demands flatly. 

Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes towards the sky as he begins unbuttoning his doublet. “Melitele help me,” he mutters, and despite how badly Geralt wants to shut him up, he doesn’t interrupt whatever this is. He shrugs out of the doublet and the shirt underneath. “This is not how I imagined this going,” he says, taking a deep quick breath and twisting around. “Earlier, you see,” he carries on with forced normality, “There was a knot on the tree in just the right place,” he tightens his hand in a fist and shows Geralt, “Yay big, give or take.”

“I did this,” Geralt says, staring at the too-dark bruise blooming across Jaskier’s lower back. “You’re so,” he starts, reaching out reflexively to touch the dark purple stain where it fades into lighter hues, into unmarked skin. So fragile. Jaskier sighs, half pain, half pleasure. 

He stands and leaves the room, ignoring the frustrated “Again!?” that follows him out the doorway. 

Geralt makes his way to his horse, ignoring the frightened stable boy who barely gets out of his way in time. His first mistake, he decides, was to stop in the town at all instead of riding on until he had to let Roach rest, new contracts be damned. He could have survived on rabbit and berries for a few weeks instead of getting into this mess, whatever it is. Better even, is that if he’d never spoken to the bard at all, all those years that feel like moments before. Let him get booed out of the tavern and into obscurity and Geralt would never have to think of his vulnerable, sensitive, breakable hide again. 

“I warned him,” Geralt rumbles softly to Roach, running a brush through her hair. The stable boy is long gone. “He never listens,” he says as he finishes and starts picking up various packs to bring back to the room. “If he was quiet for more than five seconds.” 

Roach whinnies. He knows she’s right, of course, as he pats her nose and starts back towards the inn. Some things are better left unsaid. 

“Stay put,” Geralt demands as he shuts the door behind him, in response to the way Jaskier had immediately started to fumble his way out of the bath when he realized Geralt was back. “Relax,” he says stiffly. 

Jaskier sinks back into the water, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thought you weren’t coming back,” he says defensively. The room smells conspicuously of lavender, and quite a few of the bottles that came with the room have been re-arranged on the nearby table. Jaskier’s face is scrubbed clean.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, dropping the packs at the far corner and beginning to sort through them. Not looking at Jaskier doesn’t help how badly he wants to kiss him as the soap-clean smell of the bath permeates the room. 

“Fine, we won’t talk about it,” Jaskier says, the faint splashing sounds suggesting he’s gone back to the task at hand. 

Geralt finds what he’s looking for and pulls off his shirt, tossing it into the corner. “What are you doing?” Jaskier yelps as he walks back towards him. 

“Turn around,” Geralt demands, and forces away the thrill he feels as Jaskier immediately follows his directions, fast enough to send a spray of warm water across Geralt’s chest. He holds up the candle towards the other man, examining the mottled marks across the length of his back. 

“It’s just a bruise,” Jaskier is rambling, “Honestly, I’ve suffered plenty worse from a lute string, and have you seen the tragedy that is my most favorite pair of boots?”

“On the bed,” Geralt says as he sets the candle down and starts to work the top of the small glass bottle in his hand. 

“Honestly,” Jaskier mutters, still following directions, “I’m not a child, I can handle -”

Geralt’s hand wraps around Jaskier’s hip and the pad of his thumb presses the lightest touch into Jaskier’s back. 

Jaskier hisses and snaps his head around to glare at Geralt. “Should’ve pegged you for painplay,” he grouses. 

Geralt shoves him towards the bed. “Face down,” he says. “I will gag you,” he promises when Jaskier opens his mouth to complain some more. 

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, and he groans in frustration and buries his head in a pillow. “That’s the worst threat I’ve ever heard!” he says, muffled. 

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed and scoops out some salve from the jar with his fingers, rubbing it between his hands for warmth. “It will help with the worst of the pain, make it heal faster,” Geralt explains as he begins to massage the salve into Jaskier’s back.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier tenses up when he feels his hands, and then after another moment relaxes suddenly with a sigh that shakes his whole body. “Your hands, they’re-” Geralt frowns a bit as he continues, mindful of the way his callouses catch on the delicate skin. “How have I never written about your hands before,” Jaskier finishes, sighing again, “Do not stop what you’re doing.” 

Geralt continues, letting his hands glide carefully over flesh and muscle, working the salve into the worst of the damage slowly, petting idly at Jaskier’s side when he grunted from the pain. As the minutes pass, the noises of pain turn back into sighs of pleasure, and need. Jaskier’s gone quiet, almost, his hips starting to thrust just a little, infrequently and unconsciously. Geralt has to stop soon, he tells himself, his path moving up towards the back of Jaskier’s neck, and then back down again, massaging into the lowest part of Jaskier’s back, and then lower. Jaskier moans and tilts his hips backwards, towards Geralt’s touch. 

Geralt pulls himself away, busying his hands with the jar as he gets up from the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says in a way that brooks no argument. 

Jaskier, of course, sits up immediately and argues, encouraged by the lack of pain. “Are you sure you’re not cursed?” followed quickly by, “Oh,” as he lets his eyes rake over Geralt’s naked chest. If irritation had affected his erection in any way he’s forgotten it now, and he doesn’t even try to cover himself. 

“You’ve seen me naked before.” Geralt goes back towards the bags, ignoring his own reaction towards Jaskier’s lack of shame. 

“Things were different then,” Jaskier says with conviction, “You hadn’t stuck your tongue down my throat yet.” 

“I could have killed you!” Geralt shouts at him suddenly, loud that the room shakes with it, louder than he means, too loud. 

Jaskier, damn him, looks soft and sad again, the look he’s been getting all day when Geralt tried to get rid of him. “No, you couldn’t,” he says, quiet but resolute. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Geralt says, still too loud. “You’re not strong, you’re human, human bodies break, Jaskier. It wouldn’t even slow me down.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “Accidents happen,” he says with a hand-wave, as if it doesn’t matter that Geralt was one harder shove away from breaking his spine. “I like what we do, Geralt, the whole, I get on your nerves, you yell at me, we both get rich off our adventures thing. It’s worked for a decade, I think, and so far nothing that goes bump in the night’s left me more than a scratch, and to be quite honest,” he looks away, finishing in a rush,”If I wasn’t so scared something had happened to you I would have thoroughly enjoyed being manhandled into that tree.” He pauses for a moment, then shakes himself. “Sorry, got distracted. Anyway. You’re my friend Geralt, but, “ he laughs, “If I’m honest I’ve wanted to climb you like a tree since I saw you the first time.” 

Geralt grunts at that. Definitely his first mistake, ignoring the faintest hint of arousal coming from that terrible bard, not even past his twentieth birthday. 

Jaskier is undeterred. “I know you, Geralt. All of you. I still want all of you,” Jaskier says, and they’re face to face again, and Geralt lets himself be kissed. 

The kissing still feels like a revelation, allowing Jaskier to caress his chest, his abs, to stroke lute-rough fingers idly from one nipple to the next. Still a softer touch that Geralt could have imagined, and it awakens something in him, lets the frustration and fondness and lust he’s felt for Jaskier all these years take off their disguise to show they’ve just been the one, forbidden emotion all along. 

“Where are you?” Jaskier asks, voice syrup-smooth as he cups Geralt’s chin in his hand. “I want you here with me if we’re going to do this.”

Geralt looks away from the concern in Jaskier’s eyes. “Haven’t gone anywhere.” 

He allows Jaskier to look at him (through him) a few more moments. “We’ll use a safeword,” Jaskier decides with a small nod. 

“Safeword?” Geralt repeats, unimpressed.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Yes, those of us who aspire to healthy sex lives will communicate with our partners until everyone is satsified that we’re all above board and comfortable.” 

“Whores do what they’re paid to do,” Geralt grunts.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, “Sometimes I want to wrap you up in the softest furs and kill everyone who ever made you think like this.” 

Geralt kisses him to shut him up. This time, mindful of the bard’s injuries, he carefully guides him to sit on the edge of the bed. Then Geralt kneels between Jaskier’s legs, running his hands through the hair on his shamelessly naked thighs, barely pressing his lips against the still-interested length between them. Geralt thought Jaskier wouldn’t be quiet before, but now he’s amplified, nonsense that sounds like his name, and pleading, a prayer. When Geralt swallows him down, the sound grows that much sweeter. 

Geralt looks up from under his lashes, at the tilt of Jaskier’s slender neck, the way his throat works around each noise he makes. Jaskier’s eyes are shut, squeezed shut like looking might destroy him, but his eyes open suddenly, meeting Geralt’s.

“Scarecrow,” Jaskier says firmly.

Geralt pulls himself off with a filthy noise. “Scarecr-” he repeats, muffled by Jaskier’s hand around his mouth. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Jaskier says, hand held in place. “The safeword! You can’t say it unless you mean it.” 

Geralt pushes his hand away and sighs to steel himself before getting back to business. 

“I’ll take that as agreement!” Jaskier half-shouts, his voice cracking, “Fucking, goddess, has anyone ever told you how good you are at that? They must’ve, Melitele, the songs.” Geralt scrapes his teeth carefully on the underside of Jaskier’s cock, warning. “Which I will never write,” Jaskier gasps, reaching to pull the tie from Geralt’s hair and tangling his fingers in it again. His other hand clutches the sheets desperately. 

Geralt’s own hand reaches down, untying the front of his pants, suddenly realizing how tight and uncomfortable they’ve grown. He strokes himself absently a few times to take the edge off, unconcerned with himself. 

Jaskier makes a choking sound. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, I’m not going to last much longer.” Geralt hums in agreement around Jaskier’s cock, and Jaskier loses control completely, coming with a cry of Geralt’s name, back bowing away from the bed. Geralt continues to work, propelled by each new noise and growing gentler over the next minutes until he’s barely licking Jaskier’s over-sensitive head. 

“Uncle,” Jaskier says weakly, patting the side of Geralt’s face sloppily. Geralt stops abruptly. “Didn’t use the safeword,” he says with conviction. All the same, he hasn’t seemed to gather the strength to even sit up properly, talking to the ceiling. 

Geralt isn’t convinced. “You look pretty done to me.” 

“When have you ever known me to do something I didn't want to do?” Jasker asks, and he’s right, and Geralt is half-lying next to him on the bed, kissing him slow and lazy. “You’re so,” Jaskier says between kisses, “So calm, unfazed... I bet you could go all night.” 

“Not unfazed.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and presses the heel against his cock. “Probably could go all night, though.” 

Jaskier inhales sharply. “I want to fuck you terribly.” He looks at his cock with a frown, and it occurs to Geralt that he must be past tired now, exhausted with this day and all he’s gone through, but the light in his eyes has barely dulled. He brightens. “I’m sure if you go on without me I’ll catch up.” 

There’s a handful of oils on the table, and Geralt picks one at random, ignoring Jaskier’s sudden laughter at his choice. The first brush of fingertips at his entrance shuts him up fast enough as the smell of chamomile fills the room. “Something funny?” Grealt taunts, slipping his finger all the way in as the smooth heat draws him in. 

“No,” Jaskier lies, drawn out, followed quickly by an equally long and lazy, “Yes.” 

“A wise man once told me,” Geralt says as he presses his finger in and out maddengly slow, “Chamomile is made for lovely bottoms.”

Jaskier bursts into delighted laughter then, loose and shaking with it. “You must teach me to keep a straight face like that, some day.” He’s still laughing, so Geralt purposely strokes over the just the right spot inside of Jaskier that makes him cry out instead, his cock starting to look half-hard, interested. He allows it for a little longer, still babbling nonsense things, singing the praises of the man beside him, back arching off the bed. “Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?” he asks finally, when he looks as if he might be in pain. 

He’s right, and Geralt hums in agreement as he spills oil over his cock and evens it out. He leans over Jaskier, holding himself just against his waiting entrance. “Okay?” he asks. 

Jaskier looks into his eyes. “Never better.” Tears gather in the corner of his eyes as Geralt thrusts into him. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, “Haven’t been on the receiving end in a while.” Geralt stays still, frozen in place. “I’m not complaining!” Jaskier cries out, tilting his hips greedily. 

So Geralt starts to fuck him then, slow at first, careful. But Jaskier is clenching around his cock, urging him on, taking him completely and demanding more. So Geralt pulls out and flips Jaskier around, hauling him up on his knees and fucking back in, draping himself over Jaskier’s back and stroking his cock in counterpoint to his thrusts. Jaskier comes again with another moan, throwing his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt only fucks faster, harder. He could make this last all night, but he’s overcome knowing now what he’d spent so long pretending he wasn’t denying himself. That’s what he’s thinking when he comes, biting down into Jaskier’s shoulder, how much he wants to feel and smell and taste this moment. 

Jaskier collapses belly down onto the mattress when Geralt pulls out, sighing and stretching like a spoiled cat. 

“How’s your back?” Geralt asks, wetting a cloth in the cool bathwater. 

“Gonna be sorry in the morning,” Jaskier slurs, wiggling his hips a little. His eyes are closed. 

Geralt hums and gently wipes the sweat and come from him and then so carefully cleans around his bruise. “There’s plenty of salve.” 

“Thought witcher potions were lethal to humans,” he says, and Geralt can hardly believe he still has the presence of mind to think. Except he’s not really surprised, at all.

“Not for witchers,” he explains, gathering some of the salve onto his hands and carefully applying it. 

“Why do you have it, then?” Jaskier asks innocently enough, but he has to know the answer by now, he has to, and Geralt doesn’t say anything, working carefully. 

When he’s sure Jaskier has fallen asleep, he cleans up, extinguishing the candle and fixing the sheets so that Jaskier is tucked under them. He considers getting dressed and sleeping on the floor, or maybe outside, and then shakes his head, getting into the bed. He’s completely forgotten about the bath, he realizes, but before he can have a second thought, Jaskier throws an arm over his chest in his sleep, like he’s holding him in place, nevermind that Geralt could throw him off in a second. So Geralt lets him, carding a hand gently through his hair, willing himself to accept that there are some things that never leave no matter how hard you shake them. Some things that stay because they seem to know just how badly you could never let them go.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything so quickly or easily in quite a while, and at this time I'd like to thank this damn show for keeping me alive in January during the worst health crisis of my life.


End file.
